


At the Broken Places

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 15:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11405163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: Aranea definitely didn't mean to make Ignis bleed. It's just too damn easy to forget he's relearning the bulk of his skills.





	At the Broken Places

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short little somethin' for FFXV Rare Pairs week, which I'm basically viewing as FFXV Excuses to Write Highspecs week.

“It’s nothing,” Ignis knows the words aren’t precisely true, but he isn’t going to let such a detail throw him. The pain is present and impossible to ignore, weeping hot and angry down his chest, over defined muscle at his abdomen. Aranea makes a noise in response that he can easily translate at this point- frustration and a hint of incredulity. He likes the little sound, even if it is one of annoyance. It’s one of concern too, though there really  _ isn’t  _ much to be concerned for.

“Training isn’t meant to actually injure you,” she’s taking a no-nonsense sort of tone and Ignis is quite aware he shouldn’t be smiling, but there they are and there he is. He can picture the narrowing of her eyes and furrowing of her brow in response with an almost startling clarity. It’s a moment of utter dissonance, where he can forget the particulars of his situation, set them aside in favor of a brief fantasy. His eyes are only closed here to avoid the small measure of carnage. He’ll open one and find her disapproval, maybe he’ll catch her lips and wipe away a scowl.

That, of course, isn’t quite the situation as things stand. He thinks he could probably still lean in for the kiss, be accepted at it grudgingly and with another one of those disapproving sounds. It would be clumsy though, searching, lack a sort of confidence that would turn the gesture from smooth to, dare he admit it, a bit pathetic. He makes a mental note of the idea though, sets it away for a time when his spatial awareness has improved some, when the gesture is more likely to err on the side of smooth over that of pathetic.

“You’ve been beating me soundly for weeks. I don’t see how this is any different,” maybe he’s hidden a joke in there somewhere, just a small bit of bait, but he knows better than to think Aranea will take it. Perhaps it’s Noct’s humor that’s worn off on him, or maybe Ignis has always been inclined toward it, but it’s a particular trait that Aranea isn’t quite as disposed toward. It’s not a situation she takes lightly. It’s not one that Ignis has the luxury of taking lightly either, in most cases, but a bit of humor to harshen the blow usually helps. Usually. Not in this case.

He’s taken the liberty of shrugging off his shirt, even used it to mop up a bit of the blood. It’s not a terribly deep wound, nothing properly threatening, but it’s a harsh cut into the meat of his chest and he can feel the slippery quality and work out that he’s not done much but smear the mess, make the whole situation appear worse than it really is. The pain is far from overwhelming and, when he runs his fingers on either edge of the wound, drags them along the horizontal length, he finds that there really won’t be much to remember it by save a thin scar he’ll never see.

“It’s different,” Aranea tells him this in a tone that isn’t easy to decipher. It sits somewhere between frustration and concern, hints around the edge of guilt. All of this may simply be Ignis filling in the blanks, leaning into instinct and inflection and tiny invisible hints. He is fairly well convinced, though, that he’s worked it out. He’s usually fairly well convinced that he’s worked things out with her. He doesn’t say this, though he feels just the start of a smile working the edges of his lips when her hand slaps his away. There’s a rough thump at the center of his chest to follow, the flat end of her fist followed by the cool work of a potion.

“I suspect that will do the trick,” Ignis keeps his tone calm, casual. He goes back to with the undershirt just the best he can manage, but Aranea pushes his hands down and tugs it away. There’s a moment where neither of them say anything, where Ignis can feel her eyes burning at him even if he can’t see it. It’s something in her touch, the way her fingers linger at his hands for just a moment too long when she snatches the soiled cloth. Maybe it’s in the way the air shifts around them, how he can  _ feel  _ her proximity, her face a few inches from his. 

Aranea has been no small help to his recovery, that much is without question. Ignis is learning in leaps and bounds, really. He’s learning to conduct himself on the field again. He’s learning to pay attention to things like those hints of light that still register, like the warmth of a body near his, like the sound of breath or shifting gravel or scraping armor. He’s getting better, too. He doesn’t admit to this, doesn’t allow himself to rest on any laurels, but the beatings are actually  _ far  _ less sound than he gives credit for, and the ground is becoming more even with each passing day.

Ignis presses his mouth into a thin line and he allows Aranea to set at work properly cleaning the blood away from his torso. Her touch is almost shockingly light, even if he’s well-aware that she’s capable of such tenderness. He finds something so terribly intimate about the act, the careful way she’s wiping away the blood she, however inadvertently, was the one to draw. He’s making a careful point to keep his expression neutral, maybe bordering on a tightly drawn mask. He knows that she’ll say what she needs to. He can hear the particular intakes of breath, the beginnings of sentences that she’s rethinking, mentally rewording. It’s horribly endearing.

“You do realize that if anyone else was responsible for this, I’d kill them,” the words Aranea settles on are absolutely frank, maybe a little dull in their delivery, but still enough to have Ignis incapable of choking back a brief laugh. He does, in fact, realize this. When their training together began, shortly after his injury, even less shortly after his experience in Gralea, it would have absolutely mortified him. Ignis is absolutely capable, self-reliant to a fault. A small thing like the utter loss of his sight shouldn’t change that. 

The version of himself that he hasn’t entirely quashed yet, the one that still rises in hot flashes of frustrated anger from time to time, is still screaming that fact. It’s still rebelling against the idea of being cared for, being looked after, being  _ protected.  _ The better part of Ignis, however, the part that has been improving day by day, that has been learning to accept certain limitations, feels a particularly unfamiliar warmth at the idea. And that part understands that, at her core, Aranea knows fully well that Ignis can take care of himself, that he doesn’t need someone fending off every threat, coddling him as a child. He even understands that she hasn’t been doing any of those things. She’s been standing at his side, assisting him where he needs. Knocking him soundly on his ass when he needs that, too.

“Well aware. It wasn’t anyone else though, so I hope you find the capacity to forgive,” Ignis says it with a tone that isn’t entirely serious but also is not without weight. He can hear the guilt in her voice, practically feel it in her touch, in her fingers skimming over potion-mended flesh once the blood has been wiped away. His hand moves swiftly to cover hers, press it flat against his chest, against that warm skin that is still a little sticky with remnants of blood, against the steady metronome of his heart beneath. And this time, with her hand as anchor, as a guiding point, he feels absolutely no hesitation, sweeps his head in and steals her lips. He thinks for just a moment that she will pull back, scold him again, but she doesn’t. She lingers there, warm and present and accepting. The sensation lies somewhere between comfort and thrill.

“Am I being too hard on you?” her voice is just above a whisper when their lips part, when she lets her forehead tilt to rest against his. He can feel the way her brows are furrowing, feel the little bit of tension in her hand, still pressed flat to his sternum. It’s just the sort of behavior that, back in a lifetime that seems to have passed over the course of a few weeks, would have absolutely startled him. Here, it’s only unexpected on first examination. 

“I’d tell you if you were. We agreed on that at the start,” Ignis reminds her in a voice that has dropped to match hers. He thinks that it must have the intended soothing effect because there is a hinted nod and her thumb makes an affectionate little brush against his skin. He thinks he might say more, that he might tell her there’s no need to worry, to feel guilty, but those are poor things to say. He wouldn’t dare tell Aranea how she ought to feel. 

“You’re improving. It’s easy to forget why we’re at this sometimes,” he can hear a lift in her words and it’s one hell of a relief. The words themselves, really, have a particular effect on Ignis. He thinks that, just maybe, he should be a little bit angry over them. If they had been spoken before this moment, before this day or maybe a handful prior, he absolutely would have lashed out, would have made a point that it’s not particularly easy for  _ him  _ to forget. His moods have evened though, he’s begun- to some extent, at the very least- to find some acceptance. And, put simply, the words encourage him. The idea that he’s moving well enough, performing to a standard that she might briefly slip into a mindset where he’s entirely unhindered? That’s an idea Ignis almost  _ has  _ to smile at.

“I’m taking that as a compliment. Well worth a little scratch.”

“I didn’t intend that,” he thinks it must be a difficult confession for Aranea. She doesn’t do much of anything that she doesn’t intend. This is an apology, in the best way she can put one forward. He absolutely does smile at this and he catches her lips again, only briefly this time.

“I’m certain I can think of a way for you to make it up to me,” a tease, of course, but one that comes with him drawing an arm around her waist, drawing her a little bit closer. She makes a noise of feigned disgust, but she ducks her head in against his throat and he can feel the upward turn of her lips against him there.


End file.
